Renewal
by Zoozex
Summary: A few days after Sybil's death, Isobel notices some changes in Violet's behaviour. [Slightly venturing into "M" territory. This is your only warning :D]


She liked to take long walks. _A bit of exercise, it's good for the body, I'm sure Dr. Clarkson would agree,_ she kept telling herself, but in reality she was doing it for the pleasure of the senses, although nobody would ever get her to openly admit that. She loved the cool air of the countryside blowing in her face, she enjoyed seeing, in spring, how everything just exploded with life from one day to the next, she was inexplicably moved by the melancholy air of the last days of fall descending into winter, and she always noticed how the surrounding smells changed with the seasons – freshly mown grass in summer, almost lemony; burnt leaves in the fall, bitter and a bit sour at the same time, and that strange smell of winter that creeps in as one enters a heated room on a frosty morning. An unashamedly sensual being, yes, that's what she was.

Not today, though. Today she wasn't paying attention as usual, and she barely registered the changing scenery as she slowly walked down the country road. An automobile hurriedly passed her by and she realised where she was headed when she looked to the right – the Dower House. Unannounced visits weren't very common, but then, neither were all the sad events that had happened in the last few days. She decided to keep going.

The hazel-eyed maid whose name she never managed to remember – _Connelly? Connors? – _showed her in the reading room. Violet was sitting at her desk, writing a letter, and she waited until the maid closed the door to take a couple more steps.

'Just a moment, Isobel', said Violet, briefly glancing up.

'Of course', she said as she sat down in the armchair. She took a moment to look at her. There was something about Violet that was off, somehow. Was it the slouching of her shoulders? The way she wasn't sitting quite upright? Or maybe the fact that those delicate fingers of hers, always fiddling, always nervous, always playing imaginary piano scores when they weren't holding the silver handle of her cane, seemed barely able to hold the pen? She decided to wait.

A few minutes later, Violet finished her letter, put the pen down, and turned to face her.

'Thank you. I had to finish that now, it must leave with tonight's post', she said in a low voice. 'I wasn't expecting you... I wasn't expecting anyone this afternoon, actually. Well, except for Robert, he was here earlier.'

'It must have been his car that passed me by on the road earlier. I was taking my afternoon walk and thought I'd come by, see how you were.'

Isobel watched her as she got up from the desk chair. She had seen Violet only two days ago, at Sybil's funeral. But the Violet she had seen then was so completely different from the Violet that was now in front of her. The Crawley façade, the stiff upper lip that almost defined the Dowager – _Violet_, she corrected herself – had been replaced by something hard to identify. It was as if she had suddenly aged at least twenty years in the space of a few days. Her usual measured walk had disappeared, the proud aristocratic profile – _and that air of superiority, truth be told_ - she had noticed when they first met was, somehow, less awe-inspiring, and the ever-present glint of mischief in those inquisitive blue eyes of hers had been replaced by an absent blur. There was something profoundly unfamiliar about her entire demeanour, Isobel thought. _Defeat_.

'...some tea?'

'Excuse me, what did you say?' she asked.

'I asked if you fancied a cup of tea', said Violet.

'No, thank you, maybe later.'

'You were far away for a moment there, what is it that preoccupies you to such a degree?' asked Violet, with a faint smile.

'Actually... you', she said. 'How are you holding on? How are you feeling, with all this tragedy?'

Violet paused a bit before answering.

'You needn't worry about me, I am fine. I am always fine, always here. The enduring rock of Downton... It pains me to say that I have seen worse.'

'Even rocks crack, if enough force is applied' quipped Isobel. 'You can't pretend to deal with all this loss, all this pain by yourself. I know how much you cared about Sybil...'

'There's more, you know – Robert appears to be blaming himself for Sybil's death, Cora appears to be ... well, who can find fault to a grief-struck mother, Bran- _Tom_ wants a Catholic christening for the child...'

She took a quick, shallow breath.

'I... I am _tired_, Isobel. I never thought I'd see the day in which I would stand by the grave of one of my granddaughters. Or see this family fall apart because of... '.

Violet got up slowly, supporting herself on her cane, and walked to the writing desk, absently looking out the window.

'_Un malheur n'arrive jamais seul_', she whisperedquietly.

Isobel pulled herself up from the armchair and closed the distance between them. She touched her arm tentatively with one hand, and put her other hand on Violet's back, almost around her waist.

'You _do_ know that you are not alone in this... that you can tell me anything, anything at all. You should not go through this entire ordeal alone' she said, raising her hand to touch Violet's cheek.

She felt her turn rigid, as she always did, at the invasion of her personal space. It was always like this with her; no matter how close they'd become one day, as they got farther away from that moment of closeness, Violet started to rebuild the walls, the enclosures, mount the defences. Isobel had tried to thwart this process so many times, to shake Violet's perverse determination to protect herself - against pain, against tenderness, against intimacy, against everything, really. Sometimes a compassionate word would help shatter a wall, other times a passionate kiss would breach a hole, and a few times she was surprised to see Violet come to her in search of affection. But in the end, the only person who could control Violet was, unfortunately, Violet.

She looked at her beautifully delineated profile, trying to guess, by the way she held her head, what she was thinking about.

'I do, yes. And you know you have my gratitude. Having someone to talk about these matters is most... fortunate', said Violet, in an unsure voice.

The furrow between her eyebrows grew a bit deeper. Isobel looked down and saw Violet's graceful hands turn white at the knuckles on the silver handle of her cane. She covered them with her own hand and moved a bit closer, craning her neck and kissing Violet's cheek, in an attempt to comfort her, only to be met with the same stiffness as before. And then she realised. Violet _may be_ the only one able to control Violet, but not even Violet can predict everything. If one can't foresee, plan and calculate, one has no other alternative but to react.

'No, this is not it...' whispered Isobel, looking Violet in the eyes. 'But I _do know_ what you need.'

She took Violet by one hand, and with her other hand guided her, in a swift motion, to the wall by the window, almost immobilising her. Violet's eyes widened in surprise, and she opened her mouth to protest, only to be met by Isobel's lips – unexpected, hot, unrelenting.

'What... this is completely...! O'Connell could come in at any moment!' _O'Connell, yes, that was it._

She ignored Violet's protests and, holding one of her hands down, by the wall, proceeded to kiss her neck, letting the other hand wander over Violet's left breast, gently scraping the black silk of her mourning dress with her fingernails, and seized it possessively for a fraction of a second. Violet's eyelids fluttered and she looked at Isobel with an unreadable expression. Isobel smiled and bent down briefly, grabbing the skirt of Violet's dress and lifting it up, bunching it, not giving her time to react. She felt her arm become tense and in return increased the pressure of her hold. She looked Violet in the eyes, never wavering, while negotiating sheer petticoat after sheer petticoat. She watched as Violet let out a small, ragged breath, when she cupped her with her small hand through her undergarments, and saw something that resembled abandon in Violet's eyes when she pressed her hand down - once, twice. Violet's eyes became slightly unfocused and she almost let her head lean against the wall.

'No', said Isobel. 'Look into my eyes', as her fingers touched Violet's delicate flesh and started to circle in slow, rhythmical motions. She let go of Violet's hand and took her by the waist, supporting her, never stopping, never looking away, watching Violet struggle to maintain that intimate eye contact, until she felt the all too familiar frisson coursing through her body.

'Let go, love', she whispered, 'you can let go now...'

And then she felt Violet's whole body tense up, and saw a brief flash of surprise in her eyes, followed by an almost inaudible sigh. Violet's head fell back and her hands went limp by her sides, chest heaving, knees trembling, like a disarticulated puppet. Isobel straightened up Violet's dress, then put both her arms around her and kissed her cheek. A tear formed at the corner of Violet's eye, then another one, and Isobel felt her hands fighting to get free. She tightened her hold and felt Violet's chest rise convulsively, heard the rustle of silk being clutched at, and the first strained sob, then another, and then another.

'Shush, love... Shushhhh. It's all right. You can cry now... It's all right. I'm here.'

She continued to hold her and whispered reassuring words in her ear, rubbing her back, caressing her cheek, cradling her head on her shoulder, taking Violet's hands into hers, giving her, albeit for a little while, the time and the space she needed to grieve, to mourn, to accept, to recharge.

###

When her sobs finally subsided, she led Violet to the armchair, helped her sit down, and bent over to pin down a strand of hair that had escaped her bun.

'O'Connor will probably resent me for this. I'm afraid she has to do your hair _à la française_ once again.'

A small laugh escaped Violet's lips.

'You come here three or four times a week, more than at the house, you have conversations with her every time, and yet you seem unable to remember her name. How can this be, for someone who used to assist in managing an entire hospital? It goes beyond my ability to understand.'

Isobel took a step back, admired her work, then bent over once again and brushed her lips lightly against Violet's, feeling a brief surge of emotion as Violet smiled into the kiss.

'This is the only answer you will have, for the time being', she said, smiling. 'And _I_ will have that cup of tea now. I think I deserve it.'

She tried – and failed – to conceal a small smile of triumph, as she noticed Violet's slight embarrassment, and the way she started to nervously fiddle with her cane, with her elegant, nimble fingers.


End file.
